The baby started to whine, and I reached out a hand to rub his stomach.
“Do you want some food?” Myrne asked. “There are still people here from last night, so Tom cooked up some things.”
“People?” I asked, rubbing at my eyes. “How many people?”
“I don’t know. Are you hungry or not?”
I didn’t answer. The baby had closed his eyes again, and had his face turned towards me. If ever I saw the face of an angel, it was his, at that very moment.
“And oh,” said Myrne, pushing the door open, “this one has been trying to scratch her way out of my bedroom for hours now. You have her.”
Dolly leapt through the open doorway, and bounded up onto the bed. She sniffed at Joseph’s face, licked my hand, and then sat down to look at Thea, head cocked to one side.
Thea was looking around, apparently confused as to where she was. She even looked mildly surprised to see me.
“Forgive me, my love,” she said. “But this must be at least the fifteenth place I’ve slept, in the past few months alone.”
“Nothing to forgive. I suppose I’ve been lucky, having one room to call my own.”
“I still don’t think it quite levels out.”
“You’re probably right, but it makes me feel better to think that it does.”
She smiled. “I’m all for what makes you feel best.”
“Sugar-tongued as ever, I see.”
“Only ever to you.”
I looked at her for a moment, feeling a shroud of severity come sweeping down over my head. “I think that’s one of the things I missed the most,” I said.
“What?”
I shook my head, feeling silly. “Nothing really. Just –”
“I love you.”
And that, you see, is what I meant all along. That’s what I missed.
The most.
She kept her face even. “I love you. So much.”
I wanted to say it back; I wanted to say anything other than what I did say. All I said was, “I know.”
She stretched her arms above her head. “You know, this really is a comfy bed. I wouldn’t have minded having had to sleep in it for a year of nights.”
“And some days, to be honest.”
“That doesn’t sound like you at all.”
I shrugged. “There were a lot of things, you know, that you wouldn’t have thought much like me.”
“Like what?”
I shook my head. “Nothing very important. This and that, bits and pieces. You know how it goes.”
“I do?”
“Everyone does.”
“I guess I’m not everyone, then.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Everyone’s everyone.”
She gave me a small smile. “You think I’m ridiculous?”
“You know what I meant.”
She sighed. “First I know how it goes, and now I know what you mean. I don’t mean to sound accusatory, but I think you’re making this up.”
“Making what up?”
“What you say, as you go along.”
“Doesn’t everyone?”
She reached out and took both of my hands in hers. “I have to stop you there, my love. What’s all of this ‘everyone’ business? Since when do you talk about what you do, in terms of what other people do?”
“Since always, I suppose.”
“You have not.”
I averted my eyes. “Maybe you just don’t remember.”
“Stop that. I remember every single thing I ever knew about you.”
“Then maybe you didn’t know it all.”
She seemed not to have a response to that. She did not try to reassure me; she did not even begin to argue. She only stared. Not at me, but at the ceiling.
“I’m sorry,” I said, if only to get her to say something.
She answered without looking at me. “Don’t be sorry. Be anything but that.”
Joseph began to move about, then. I looked down at him, saw him staring up at me with his bright, wide eyes. I picked him up and set him on my stomach, so that he could see both me and Thea. She was still unfamiliar to him, so he kept his eyes mostly upon her, apparently as transfixed by her beauty as I had always been.
Thea was staring back at him, but with glazed eyes and a blank expression.
“What’s the matter?”
She gave her head a small shake, as if trying to dispel the daze. “Nothing,” she said. “I was just thinking.”
I remembered the way she had looked at Joseph, just before we went to sleep; and I began to wonder if I had reason to worry.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” she said absently.
“Will it be a problem?”
She turned her head quickly, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I mean Joseph. Will he be a problem for you?”
She looked at the baby again. “I remember you asking me something like that once, about another boy by the same name.”
“Then I suppose you can be just as honest as you were the last time.”
“What did I say last time?”
“You know what you said.”
She sighed. “Well, whatever I said, you know how it was. I cared about him just as much as you did.”
“But you were never faced with the prospect of having to care forever.”
“I think that that’s a little unfair, considering the way things turned out.”
I tried to smooth the cowlicks round Joseph’s ears.
“Kate.”
“What?” I asked, rubbing at a small smudge on the baby’s forehead. “We both know you’re right. I’m sorry, I should never have said anything.”
“I didn’t say that, Katie. And I’m not going to lie to you – for it’s going to take a lot of getting used to. I’ve never even liked children.”
“That’s what I said.”
“When?”
“The day Joseph was born.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. And I did.”
“You seem to like him now.”
“Due to the risk of coming off as a terrible mother, I took a shine to him.”
She studied the baby for a minute, watching him reach for a handful of my hair to put into his mouth.
“He certainly has at least one thing working for him,” she said. “He’s absolutely beautiful. He looks just like you.”
“Myrne said that that wasn’t such a good thing.”
“Well, that’s only because Myrne looks like a donkey.”
“I would say that that makes me feel better, but he really doesn’t look like a donkey.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“I’ve always thought that he’s handsome.”
“He might be, if he cut that straggly hair and shaved his face.”
“He calls it ‘rugged.’ ”
“He looks like an emaciated monkey.”
I thought about it. “That I’ll agree with.”
As if she were tired of not being noticed, Dolly began to whine. She had curled up beside my leg before Thea opened her eyes; so Thea started now, laying a hand over her mouth to suppress a shout. But then she sat up a little, and gave the dog a strange look.
“Is that –”
“It is,” said I.
***
Downstairs, I found myself in the company of at least fifteen strangers. Some were drinking coffee (and, from the smell of it, whiskey) in the kitchen, and some were sitting in the parlour.
I walked up to Myrne, who was talking to a man with a long, grey beard and an enormous pair of spectacles.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Well, I was just talking to Dr Parker here about the state of our hospitals, and I have to tell you that I’m just –”
“Not about the damned hospitals, Meniah. Why is everyone still here?”
“Not everyone. And, by the way, you don’t have a very welcoming way about you.”
“Quite made u
p for by a lovely face,” said Dr Parker with a smile.
“Um – thank you,” I said. “I didn’t mean to be rude, I was only curious.”
“None of our people have come to fetch us,” said Parker. “It’s not my intention to sound conceited, but I and my colleagues here are rather high-profile. We can’t just go walking about all over town.”
“You’ve no way to contact anyone?”
“I had a messenger boy with me when I arrived yesterday, but I sent him out around midnight. He’s not returned.”
“Quite the predicament,” said Myrne, nodding thoughtfully.
“I’m sorry for your trouble,” I said to Parker. “But you’ll have to excuse me.”
“Of course, my dear.”
Much to my surprise, I found Abbaline in the kitchen.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Disappointed to see me?”
“Never. I only supposed that you would be out, trying to solve the mysterious problems of your guests.”
She sighed. “As did I. I would have been out, trying to figure out exactly what in the hell is going on, but I was told to stay.” She narrowed her eyes. “Imagine that. Like a common little dog.”
“I’m sure that it was for your own good.”
“Who knows what’s better for me than I do?”
“To be honest, I was merely attempting to placate you.”
“Well, at least you’re blunt about it.”
“As always.”
I had gotten myself a cup of coffee (declining a shot of whiskey to be poured into it) and drank half of it before I thought to ask where the others were.
“Sam and Blackie went off last night, when Banks’s transportation failed to arrive. Tom followed this morning.”
“You’ve not heard anything?”
“I would have told you if I had.”
She reached for the silver flask I had rejected. Its owner was a short, stocky man, with the red cheeks characteristic of someone who drank far more than he should.
“There you go!” said he. “Nothing like a swig of good spirits to get you going.”
“Or put you to sleep,” I muttered.
“Say,” said Abbaline, splashing some of the liquid into her mug, “where’s your little family got to?”
“Still upstairs.”
“Well, that’s too bad. They’re missing all the fun.” She took a long drink. “And I’ve yet to even be properly introduced to your long-awaited guest.”
“You’ll see her soon enough, if you’re going to be hanging about the place all day.”
“You seem a little more displeased with my presence, every time you speak.”
“Certainly not.”
At that moment, someone walked into the kitchen. I turned my head to see Myrne holding Joseph. Filing behind him were Thea, Mary-Anne, and Kerry.
“Well, here’s everyone,” said Abbaline.
“Are you hungry, little one?” the ruddy man asked Mary-Anne. “There are still some scraps of breakfast on the counter there. Here, let me make you a plate.”
“How gracious of you, Seymour. Forever to the rescue.”
“Be nice now, Abbaline. There’s a child about.”
“Is that what that is? I thought it was a dwarf.”
It was clear that Mary-Anne was not listening to her, anyway. She took the plate politely from Seymour, but then proceeded to devour its contents with a fervour rivalling that of a starving orphan. (Which was what she really was, I supposed.)
“Don’t you go getting yourself sick, now,” Kerry said to her.
“Nothing wrong with a child’s healthy appetite,” said Seymour. “Nothing at all.”
“Says the man with the whiskey in his pocket,” said Abbaline.
“Says the woman who drank the last of it,” retorted Seymour bitterly.
Their banter was far away to me, almost muffled. I was watching Thea.
The night before, everything had happened too quickly – none of it had seemed real. I had seen her; I had touched her; but the truth had not taken hold yet. I had not really realised that she was back – back for good. Now, though, seeing her standing there in the kitchen, shining like a jewel in the noontime sun, I thought that I was going to cry.
While Kerry and Mary-Anne ate opposite me at the table, and while Abbaline continued to argue with Seymour about something or other, I just watched Thea. Our eyes were locked tighter than a vice.
***
While Joseph was rolling around on the parlour floor, revelling in the attention he was receiving from all of the guests, Thea and I managed to escape the house for a while. The air, fast approaching its winter condition, was piercingly cold, and bit at my cheeks with a vengeance.
“Where are we going?” Thea asked.
“Nowhere and everywhere,” I said, reaching for her hand. “This way and that. Wherever you want to go.”
“I’d tell you where to go, if I even knew where I was.”
“All right. Then just tell me what you want to do.”
She pulled me closer as we walked on down the road. “I want to be with you.”
“But you’re already doing that.”
“Well, it’s all I want.”
“Be that as it may – I am neither an activity nor a destination.”
“Whatever you say, love.”
“Even if I said something crazy?”
“What would you say?”
“Nothing. I was only asking.”
“Well,” she said, in a play-along sort of voice that was not entirely serious, “I suppose it would depend on just how crazy it was. As long as it won’t end in our demise, then I’ll try it.”
“What if it did?” I asked, not quite knowing what I was asking, but feeling altogether just as serious as she was not.
“Then I wouldn’t.”
“What if you had to?”
“Why would I?”
I stopped walking. “Because I asked you to.”
She halted her step as my hand pulled her back. She studied my face, while her own countenance conveyed an uncertainty that longed to understand. “Is this hypothetical, or did you really ask me something?”
“I didn’t ask anything.”
“Are you trying to?”
“No.”
“Then what’s this about, Katie?”
I started, again, to walk. “I told you, it’s not about anything. I’m just talking.”
“Yes, but what about?”
“Why does it matter?” I asked, feeling a little ruffled. “You never used to ask so many questions. You just listened.”
“Not when you acted this way.”
“What does that mean? That I was always insane? Mad as a hatter, from the first moment you knew me?”
Her face fell. “I never, ever said that. Why would you?”
“Because I am. You just don’t know it yet.”
“You’re not. I know that, apparently, better than you do.”
“Then you don’t know me at all.”
She made me stop, gripping my upper arm firmly. “That’s the second time you’ve said that today, and it’s starting to bother me. Tell me, Katie – if I don’t know you, then just who does? Matthew Myrne?”
I sighed. “Don’t start with that again. I already told you it’s not that way.”
“I know it’s not. I believed you when you told me. I’m just trying to understand, and you won’t help me.”
“What is there to understand? I told you everything you could possibly want to know.”
Her eyes searched the depths of mine. “You haven’t,” she said. “There’s something else. Somewhere far away, where I can’t see. It’s hurting you, and you don’t even know it.”
My voice was a little colder than I intended. “How would you know, if I don’t?”
“Because, Katie, even if you don’t want to believe me – I know you.”
She put a hand to the side of my face, and turned it firmly back towa
rds hers. “Look at me,” she said, trying to catch my eyes again. “Where is all this coming from?”
“Some things are better left unsaid.”
“I don’t think that’s true.”
“Well, I do.”
“If it’s something that bothers you so much, it shouldn’t be left unsaid.”
“Who says that it bothers me?”
“You did.”
“I didn’t.”
“You might as well have.”
I tried to take my hands away (she had been holding them in her own), but she held them tighter. “Let go,” I said.
“Why?”
“Because I want to walk.”
“I’ve always hated it when you lie to me.”
“I’m not lying. I just want to go.”
“Go where?”
“I don’t – I just – what does it matter? I’ve been going wherever I want, whenever I want, for a long time now. I’m not going to stop, just because you came back.”
“I hope that’s not really what you meant to say.”
“Of course it is.”
“I don’t think so.”
“And how would you know?” I cried.
“I’ve seen you talk circles before, my love.”
I felt myself breathing shallowly. My voice came as less, even, than a whisper.
“I thought that I would never see you again,” I said. “I had only just learnt how not to need you.”
“Do you wish I wasn’t here?”
“No,” I said quickly, a few hot tears splashing down my cheeks. “I don’t wish that. I wished for you, so many times I can’t count, so many times I can’t even remember. After you were gone, all I had was Tyler – and then he was gone, too. Then everything, oh, every single bit of it! just went wrong. It was all so wrong . . .”
I started to sob so hard, that I had to stop talking for a moment. I tried to breathe, tried to stop shaking – tried to find the words to say what I wished to say.
“I thought I had to let you go. I thought I had to learn to live without you, because I couldn’t live with you when you weren’t there. I did that first, because I didn’t know what else to do. But then I had to learn something new. It wasn’t a choice anymore.”
“What does that mean, Katie?”
I pulled back my sleeves, so she could see the bubbles. The bubbles that would never burst.
“I couldn’t forget, after that. I couldn’t pretend that things weren’t the way they were. I almost killed my baby, and I couldn’t tell myself anymore that I didn’t want him.” I stared at the ground. “I changed everything, and broke everything, all at the same time. Now it’s hard to let you feel real.”
An Irish Heart Page 41
